


Eggs for Sinners, Chocolate for Saints

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Easter, Egg Hunt, Greg the Reformed Criminal, M/M, Mycroft the Vicar, Parentlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 11:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18549172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: The vicarage is hosting an egg hunt and the vicar himself, Mycroft Holmes, as well as his former-criminal-now-police-constable lover, Greg Lestrade, are enjoying the day with their dear son Archie who, as expected for a toddler, is making the most of the experience.  And driving his fathers absolutely batty...





	Eggs for Sinners, Chocolate for Saints

**Author's Note:**

> A little extra peek into the lives our boys from the [Of Sinners and Saints](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238033) universe. If you haven't read that one, it's enough to know Mycroft is the village vicar, Greg was an actual criminal who found redemption and is now a police constable, and Archie is their adopted son. They all live with Mrs. Hudson, their housekeeper, in a quaint little English village which, in this new tale, is enjoying the fun of watching their prim and proper vicar live with a rough, salty-tongued lover and a clever, rambunctious toddler...

      “Archibald, no.”

      “Archie, yes!”

The two-and-a-half-year-old boy giggled loudly and ran off in his Easter best, clutching his basket in his tiny fist, completely oblivious to the glare being shot into his back by his, also in his Easter best, Papa and the laughter of his, ‘I’ve got to hide eggs!  I’m not wearing a fucking suit!’ Daddy.

      “This is your fault, Gregory.”

      “My fault?  I seem to remember some who looks, coincidentally, _exactly_ like you pooh-poohing me when I said not to let him know about the egg hunt beforehand or a certain little Easter monster would never be able to sit still today, let alone pay you any heed when you tried to put the word of God into him.”

      “His rebellious streak was inherited directly from you, of that I am most certain.”

      “Can you blame him?  He did his very best, you have to admit, sitting through Easter service in his new clothes, knowing all the while he was on Mrs. Hudson’s lap that an enormous magical bunny was hiding colorful eggs in his own yard, so you can’t ask the little man to watch the other tykes race off to find those eggs while he’s got to stand here with us like the host of a party greeting his guests at the door.”

      “It is our duty to the community to…”

      “ _Our_ duty, meaning mine and yours, not his.  Look at him!  Well, maybe not now because he’s eating the biscuit he just dropped into the dirt, but try to ignore the eating dirt part and focus on how bloody happy he is.”

Mycroft sighed and conceded that his son, his precious, much-beloved son, was absolutely radiant with happiness.  And he _had_ been a very good boy during his sermon.  In his earliest days with them, Archie had manifest as a veritable wiggle worm who would cry with operatic volume, and drama, for his Papa when said Papa was addressing the congregation, spurring a quick retrieval of the wiggly worm from the audience to allow for the _continued_ addressing of the congregation while a now-content child was gently bounced in the proud Papa’s arms.  Next it had been waving and shouting ‘Papa!  That my Papa!  I wuv Papa!” at various moments during the service, which Gregory did little to quiet, since he was a staunch believer in celebrating their family status, regardless of when and where it was being celebrated.  Now, the shouting had passed into memory and his child was much more amenable to sitting through the service with only the occasional toddling to the altar to sit on the steps and play quietly with a toy or hold out his hand for a lolly that his pontificating Papa had begun carrying on his person for exactly this eventuality.  Today was a lolly day, in point of fact, but it was a special, bunny-shaped one that kept his young son fascinated as he methodically licked through each ear in turn then, while they greeted the congregation as they exited the church, loudly pronounced it a snowman and held it up as if to beg the Lord’s blessing on his, somewhat drippy sweet.

      “Very well, I see your point.  He may frolic to his heart’s content.”

      “The frolicking has already begun, too.  Voila!  He’s snatched another biscuit from Mrs. Hudson’s biscuit basket and is doing a bunny hop back to the garden.  If he actually puts any effort into finding a single egg, I’ll be gobsmacked.  His little pals are here and there’s biscuits and punch galore… not to mention there are two, count them, _two_ dogs milling about and you know they’ll attract him like a magnet.”

      “If either of them defiles my garden, Gregory Lestrade…”

      “I’d expect a few plants to be watered, but that’s pretty much it.  How long are you going to be with us here, do you think?”

Mycroft looked at his watch and did a quick mental calculation.  Hosting an egg hunt was actually a new addition to his Easter schedule.  Typically there _was_ a children’s party of some sort each year, usually on the village green, but it was planned and tended to by others who, this year, gave pointed and forceful hints that, since he was now the father of an egg-hunt-aged son, perhaps the event should move to the vicarage grounds, which offered more hiding places for eggs and other individuals to tend to the pesky details, such as _everything_ involved in the event and its cleanup.  However, that did not diminish or replace any of his other duties.  Already he had performed Easter service, an exceedingly eloquent one this year, if he was any judge… and he was… but soon must pay his respects to various individuals who were a touch long in the tooth or under the weather to attend this year’s sermon.

After that, of course, he would assist with the preparation and serving of the Easter meal to those in their community who found themselves unhappily alone or in need at this time of year.  Hopefully, a new pair of hands would be joining them in prayer this year as they thanked the Lord for his bounty.  It was a rare thing for their village to host someone without a home, but the young, too-thin man who had  been spied several times lurking about the edges of their community likely fit the bill and… well, he had yet to gain the man’s name, but he _had_ reached out, including issuing a heartfelt invitation to join them today, and he would continue to extend a friendly hand, working through the slow process of building trust that, hopefully, might allow him to provide counseling and services that seemed sorely needed.  Gregory had also reached out, doing the good work of a policeman to protect and care for all who resided with them, whether the residence was a brick-and-mortar home or a far humbler shelter and, between them they were committed to helping the poor man through this troubled time and setting his feet back on the path God had set for him.

      “A half-hour or so, I suspect.  This is not typically a prolonged event, in any case, as families have celebrations of their own in which to participate.”

      “Just like us.”

Greg cocked a thumb their son, who was currently sitting on the grass, patting a dog and trying to feed him one of the carrots he’d demanded be left out for the Easter Bunny.

      “Precisely.”

Seeing Mycroft’s blissful smile, Greg leaned in and gave him a kiss, then reached down to squeeze his hand.

      “Happy, love?”

      “Ecstatic.  All my dreams, Gregory, all are here in this place and I could not be more content.”

      “Especially since the London faction of the very extended Lestrade-Holmes family aren’t coming until next weekend because they knew how busy we’d be today.”

      “That… yes, I cannot underestimate the bolstering effect of that particular fact.”

      “Mrs. Hudson is getting thousands of snaps to share, though, so they’ll have a full documentary presentation of our day.”

      “I am simply happy some of those photographs were taken _before_ our day began, so your parents can see how handsome Archibald appeared in the clothes they purchased for him.”

      “Grandparent-picked clothes are always special.  Sometimes in a good way!  At least these were roomy enough for him to run about and play.  _And_ can be tossed in the laundry with the rest of his muddy, food-stained togs.”

      “They are well aware of our Archibald’s vigorous nature.  Only yesterday, for example, he helped you chase down a criminal.”

Who was the neighbor’s cat that had jumped onto the garden bench where their son was eating his lunch and made off with half of his sandwich.

      “It was a high-speed pursuit, too!  Had to retrieve the stolen loot before it changed hands for a quick sale and profit split.  In my bad old days, I’d look to get things out of my hands as fast as they got into them.  Minimize the risk to me and get me some quick cash to spend, which I _always_ appreciated and proceeded to blow through so fast it practically set my wallet on fire.  Luckily for me and Archie, though, it’s a small cat, so the part he’d started to nibble on was _also_ small and left most of the sandwich for Archie to finish.”

      “You… you let him eat the sandwich.  _After_ the cat held it in its mouth?”

      “Sure!  Tore that part off and let the mog keep it, but there wasn’t anything wrong with the rest, so why waste food?  Archie didn’t mind.  Sat right down next to the thief and ate the rest of his lunch with his furry friend.”

      “You did not inform me of that particular addition to the day’s escapades.”

      “Because you’d turn the same color you’re turning now, which is a vibrant, but hopelessly unhealthy, shade of green and we had enough color in the house already, what with having to dye forty million eggs for today’s festivities.”

      “Archibald _is_ seeing the pediatrician tomorrow.  The earliest appointment.”

      “Ok, but he vet might have a better idea about this sort of thing, actually, and you can have that chat you’ve been meaning to have about the animal rescue fundraiser you want to organize.”

      “Hmmm… you have a point.  That might be a more efficient…”

      “DADDY!  PAPA!  EGGS!”

Mycroft and Greg looked down at the shouting voice and immediately wished they hadn’t.

      “Yeeesssss…. eggs.  Behold, Gregory…. eggs.”

      “A whole nest of them.”

      “ _With_ the nest, as well.”

Sitting in Archie’s basket was a bird’s nest, sporting three small eggs that lacked even a speck of dye, let alone one of the jaunty stickers the police-uniformed Easter Bunny helper had affixed to them after he finished his constabulary duties for the day.

      “EGGS!”

      “I… bravo, Archibald.  You discovered a veritable treasure chest of today’s prizes.”

      “DADDY!  EGGS!”

      “One, two and three… three for Archie.  Ummmm… where’d you find them, expert egg hunter?”

Archie beamed widely and pointed upwards into the tree under which the refreshment table had been erected.

      “How on Earth… did an angel spirit him skyward?”

      “No need for angels, love.  He can climb up there himself.”

      “Pish tosh.”

      “Where did I have to get him down from last week?”

      “I… the roof, however, that was an aberrant event.”

      “You need to face it, Mycroft.  Our son is part monkey.  He climbs _everywhere_!”

      “Ridiculous.  He is not even three years of age.”

      “A not-quite-three-year-old monkey!  If you haven’t noticed the number of times we’ve had to pull him down off of stone walls, fenceposts, the bloody roof!, woodpiles, etc. then you’re missing something in your brain you probably need.  Besides, everything in this fucking village seems designed for little monkeys to climb on.  All this craggy old construction and… rural stuff.  Handholds and footholds everywhere.”

      “EGGS!  FWEE!”

      “Yes, Archibald, _three_ eggs.  We are terribly proud of you.”

      “Here.”

Handing over his basket to Mycroft, Archie promptly lost interest in his bounty and toddled off to find his dog friend and more sugary snacks.

      “At least our son brought these tragic orphans to a man of the Lord for safekeeping.”

      “He gave you a pickle for safekeeping last night, so I’m not certain it’s a charitable urge.”

      “I disagree.  I know of no scripture that specifically states pickles are to be denied the blessings of our Father and his blessings I did bestow.  Before eating it.”

      “Those are good ones, too.  Mrs. Turner might be loony, but she does make a good sour pickle.”

      “I suspect she infuses them with a soupcon of her natural, vinegary personality, hence their particular excellence.”

      “You’re probably right.  Now, though… I think I remember where that nest was, so I’ll put it back up for the mother bird to find.”

      “I thought if one handled a baby bird it would be abandoned by its mother?”

      “Nah, that’s shite.  Besides, they’re eggs, not babies.  And in their nest!  I’ll just pop the whole thing back in the tree where it came from and none’s the wiser.”

      “And when your son demands his spoils?”

Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out a few wrapped sweets, two plastic figurines and a mysterious half a rubber ball that Archie found on the ground on the way to church that morning, all of which were quickly exchanged in the basket for the bird’s nest.

      “If he notices, let alone cares, I’ll give you a fiver.”

      “Which I shall add to our fund for repainting the vestry.”

      “ _Which_ you already volunteered _me_ to do.  For free.”

      “We must purchase the paint, must we not?  And… the paint application devices.”

      “Brushes?”

      “No, I was thinking of the rolling applicators I have seen on home maintenance programs.  It is a somewhat large space for one man and a single brush.  A rolling thing seems a more effective method.”

      “One man.   One.  Don’t think I’m not noticing the very singular ‘one’ and wondering why you haven’t shriveled to a wizened little shrunken head of a vicar from the shame of it all.”

      “Oh very well… you may purchase for your son a brush and he might act as your assistant, tending to the lower portions of the walls and trim.”

Actually the mental image of his Gregory and their Archibald working together on a project was a joyful one in Mycroft’s mind.  His love was so patient, so devoted to nurturing and mentoring their child.  And so wonderfully-capable of managing the messy tasks for which their offspring had a decided taste.

      “His next birthday, love, we’re going to have a party and I’ll have paper all over for the tykes to finger paint on, along with some skin-friendly paint for the tykes to draw lovely pictures on their prim and proper Papas’ faces.”

Mycroft’s shocked gasp was only party fake, and it earned him Greg’s wickedest grin, with wickeder peek of tongue, as the reformed criminal strutted off to conduct his mission of mercy.  Something his Gregory did extremely well, too.  The strutting, that is, not the missions of mercy, though he was talented with those, also. The man’s bottom was _exquisite_ when he strutted.  And… oh dear… when he was using his muscular legs, and bottom, to climb the tree… which, now that he observed more closely, _could_ be accessed by a determined toddler through clambering up the statue of Thomas Aquinas that stood in watchful silence beneath the tree’s sheltering shade, then hopping from the statue’s supportive shoulders to the lowest branch, whereupon the rest of the tree was there for the pillaging.  How Archibald the Monkey accomplished the act in reverse, though, perfectly preserving the sanctity of the nest, was known only to his son and God.  And neither was particularly likely to provide enlightenment.

However, Gregory only had to protect the nest on the ascent, an easier task, and lo!  The nest finds, again, it’s home in the boughs, securely nestled in the branches where, as if by divine mercy, the mother had flown to loudly chastise his beloved and chase him away from her eggs.  Dear heavens, but she was angry.  And loud.  And aggressive.  Perhaps… climb down, Gregory.  Climb… fall.  Falling is faster, yes.  Oh dear…

Mycroft ran over to the expanse of flattened grass and knelt next to the person whose plummet had caused the flattening.

      “Are you alright, my dear?”

      “She was _mad_ at me.”

      “Yes, so I observed.”

      “That’s a real mother, right there.  Flew right at me and I was a million times her size.”

      “A small mathematical exaggeration, but I credit the sentiment.”

      “I took a bit of a fall.”

      “You did.”

      “But I got the nest back up there.”

      “Expertly so.  And, look!  The mother bird has returned to warming her eggs.  I have no doubt we shall be blessed with a new family in our midst very soon.”

      “That’s nice.  And she’ll fuck up any old cat who tries to eat those new babies, too.”

      “Daddy?”

Greg turned his head to look at this son and gave himself a mental thumb’s up that this signaled he’d probably not broken his neck.

      “Yes, Archie, egg hunter extraordinaire?”

      “You fall down.”

      “I fell down.”

      “Want chocat?”

Archie extended his half-eaten chocolate egg and, without waiting for an answer, pressed it into Greg’s mouth.

      “Feel good?”

      “Um hmm… I feel very good now.  Thank you.”

      “Ok bye.”

Archie ran off to get another chocolate egg, wiping his brown fingers on his trousers and closely avoiding a collision with another brown-fingered child who decided running with him was more fun than crying because she had nearly bowled over by a treat-seeking peer.

      “I feel the strength in you rising, Gregory.  Whether it is by the grace of God or the grace of the confectionary industry, however, I am uncertain.  I shall award 50% thanks to each and ask if you would like help standing.”

      “Ok.  Taking my time so nothing falls off.  There we go. And, save your applause, but notice I didn’t grunt like my dad would have.”

      “The robustness of youth is positively radiating off of you.”

      “So’s my good looks.”

      “That goes without saying.”

      “How much chocolate do I have on my face?”

      “A smidgen.”

      “I could use a little help getting it off.”

      “Alright, I believe I have a handkerchief somewhere…”

Greg laughed and drew Mycroft close, giving him a kiss that snuck in a few secretive licks to demonstrate why a handkerchief was totally unnecessary for what he was thinking.  Fortunately, his lover was very quick on the uptake.      

      “Am I clean?”

      “ _Physically_ yes, though I harbor doubts about _spiritually_.”

      “Fair.  How about I take some time tonight to help you decide if I’m spiritually clean or wildly, sweatily filthy?”

      “Hmmmm… I do enjoy the opportunity to lay to rest a spiritual uncertainty.”

      “Lots of data collection?”

      “Scads.”

      “And our little boy will be so stuffed with chocolate that he’ll sleep like a log all night.”

Mycroft gave Greg another kiss and felt his heart clench, as it typically did, when the sense of pure and powerful love for the man in his arms flooded his soul.  With this man he had found true peace, built a family and would move through the years as a man who never, ever, took for granted the blessings he had been granted.

      “Love… why did our son just turn on the garden hose?”

      “The devil made him do it?”

      “Probably.  Something else he inherited from me.”

      “Yet we love him still.”

      “That we do. But we also need to save the other kids from his watery aspirations.”

      “Perhaps, but… oh look.  He is simply washing the dog.”

      “That’s nice.  Until it trots over here and shakes all of that dirty water on you.”

Mycroft running at full speed was a sight the entire village appreciated.  It was good to have a vicar with energy.  And, with that baby and husband to manage, he needed all the energy he could get…


End file.
